I received this Fiction Prompt from Poets & Writers today and found it intriguing:

What kind of story would you write for someone reading it one hundred years from now?

For Scottish artist Katie Paterson’s Future Library project, which started in 2014, she has commissioned Margaret Atwood, David Mitchell, Elif Shafak, Sjón, and Han Kang to write manuscripts that will remain unread in storage in an Oslo library until 2114. The texts will then be printed on paper made from one thousand trees planted in a Norwegian forest when the project began.

Write a short story with the notion that it won’t be read for one hundred years. While imagining a future generation of readers, explore themes involving time, eternity, and mortality.

Do you think that the participating writers will all abide by the “rules” . . . allowing their words to remain unread for 100 years?

Or will most/all of them keep a copy available to share with chosen readers before the designated date?

Thank you dear readers for your support and encouragement throughout this wild and crazy adventure!

A special thank you to my amazing co-author, Colin, from https://meandray.com/. Thanks for what I often called your magic touch! Thanks for your patience also that may have been needed sometimes in working with me. How did Moonbeam Farm get its name again? 🙂

Also a big thanks to the very talented artist Jodi McKinney from https://lifeinbetween.me, You been with us from the very beginning of this dream, from the first story that appeared on my blog, and you made our beloved characters look awesome!

“WHAT?! How could you do that?! You knew we’d want to see him again. And that we’d want to bury him in the family plot next to mom and dad.”

“Hmm . . . to be honest, I didn’t consider what you wanted. HE wanted to be cremated. I arranged for his cremation.”

“But you should have let us view him first!”

“Why? That’s not what HE wanted. HE didn’t want people admiring the work of a mortician, talking about how peaceful HE looked.”

“But we wanted to see him again!”

“Too bad. Too little. Too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means HIS wishes trumped yours.”

“That’s not good enough. How could you ignore what WE wanted?!

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Spell it out for me anyway. I want to understand why you chose to disregard OUR wishes.”

“OK. Here goes: He called you. And called you. And called you. And YOU did not call back. YOU didn’t write. YOU didn’t visit. YOU ignored him while he was alive so I felt no need to accommodate YOUR egocentric desires once he died. HE asked to be cremated. I honored that request. Case closed.”

“But you had no right to cremate OUR brother!”

“Of course I did. If I didn’t have the legal right to dispose of his remains, the funeral home would have refused my request.”

“That’s not what I meant! You should have called US to see what WE wanted.”

“I don’t see it that way. And, even if you could somehow convince me now, it’s too late. It’s a done deal. Deal with it.”

“He never should have married you!”

“But HE did. And now he’s dead. It’s a brand new day.”

Aah . . . that’s better!

When someone dies . . . should the wishes of the deceased trump the desires of the mourners?

Joan found her husband tinkering at his workbench. “Paul, the mall has closed in a puff of smoke.”

“So I heard.”

“You did?”

“Yup. I heard Cathy’s concerns about Christmas and Cinnabons loud and clear.”

“What are we going to do?”

“About?”

“Are you daft? Shopping. Gifts. Christmas. Ringing any bells?”

Paul caught Joan’s gaze. “Let’s make hand-made gifts.”

“You have sawdust for brains.”

“Hear me out. Instead of poring over flyers, hunting for parking spots, and lugging piles of stuff home, let’s create gifts from the heart. I’ll make wooden trains, planes, and puzzles for the kids. And a pipe rack for your dad.”

“What about me?”

“Your friends would love your homemade fudge or toffee . . . or one of your famous Grand Marnier cakes. You could make your mom that wreath she’s wanted.”

Warming to the idea, Joan returned to the kitchen and grabbed her recipe file.

Soon delicious aromas circulated, mingling with carols. As fragrant cakes baked, Joan created a starfish and sand dollar wreath for her mom, scented candles for her sister, and an afghan for Cathy.

It’s not just that you feel you wasted your time by watching it, but you feel they wasted their time by filming it, marketing it, distributing it.

CHEF is just such a movie:

* Chef Carl Casper loses his job at a prominent L.A. restaurant when he refuses to compromise his creative integrity in the kitchen.

* He teams up with his pre-pubescent son to launch a food truck in Miami.

* He reignites his passion in the kitchen by pressing paninis and frying yucca.

A plausible premise poorly prepared and implausibly served . . . with plot holes large enough to swallow a Food Truck.

The biggest problem is the time line.

In a single day, a short 24-hours, Chef and his 8-year-old son manage to clean out a dilapidated, worn out 1988 food truck (delivered with food rotting in the fridge), shop for ALL the supplies they need to trick it out, install new kitchen equipment (flat top, stove, fryers, etc.), buy food, test out the menu, and get the messed up exterior of the food truck professionally painted ~> effectively turning a rotting pumpkin into a gilded chariot overnight.

Cinderella couldn’t have accomplished that level of transformation with the help of her fairy godmother’s magic wand.

By Day #2, Chef, his son, and a faithful sous chef (who dropped everything to fly across country and get the show on the road) start serving Hot Cubanos on South Beach. To immediate acclaim.

A police officer parts the crowd to ask Chef and his Merry Men if they have a permit to serve food.

They do!

How’d that happen? When’d that happen?

But wait!

Satisfied that they have perfected the panini, the trio commence a road trip across country, stopping for beignets in New Orleans ~ a promised treat for the son. In the time it takes to eat a bag of beignets and brush the sugar dust from their lips, a line forms around the block with people anxious to eat Chef’s Cuban sandwiches. They’re just that good!

Who knew that a food truck license from Miami would transfer to the Big Easy?

But wait! They continue on to California, with a pit stop for Pit Bar-B-Q in Austin Texas. Chef believes he has reclaimed his Culinary Integrity by serving cubans, sliders, beignets, and fried yucca ~> not exactly the inspired menu we envisioned him creating when he quit his job because he couldn’t exercise complete Creative Control in the kitchen.

Now, instead of crafting Molten Lava Cakes around frozen ganache, he and his merry band are sliding ham & cheese sandwiches out of a panini press, frying up yucca, and serving barbecue sliders . . . on store-bought rolls.

Boring!

I could think up a more creative menu than that and I don’t even own a Chef’s knife.

Or a magic wand.

But wait!

The food critic who panned the Chef’s mundane menu falls in love with Chef’s glorified grilled cheese sandwiches and offers to partner with him by opening up a new restaurant.

Of course he does.

So Chef abandons the food truck (and his longed for autonomy and creative freedom) to work for someone else. Again.

Why do I have the feeling of déjà vu?

Oh, right . . . because he’s right back where he started.

Of course, by following his heart, Chef reunites with his son, re-kindles the flame with his ex-wife, and they remarry.